Sandy eBook

Sandy stayed at the door with Annette, but Ruth came
to the window and asked for her mail. When she
smiled at the contrite Jimmy she scattered the few
remaining ideas that lingered in his brain. With
crimson face and averted eyes, he handed her the letter,
forgetting that telegrams existed.

He saw her send a quick, puzzled glance from the letter
to Sandy; he saw her turn away from the door and tear
open the envelop; then, to his everlasting credit,
he saw no more.

When he ventured forth from behind his desk the office
was empty. He made a cautious survey of the premises;
then, opening a back window, he seized a small bottle
by the neck and hurled it savagely against the brick
wall opposite.

CHAPTER XX

THE IRONY OF CHANCE

The snow, which had begun as an insignificant flurry
in the morning, developed into a storm by afternoon.

Four miles from town, in a dreary stretch of country,
a dejected-looking object tramped along the railroad-track.
His hat was pulled over his eyes and his hands were
thrust in his pockets. Now and again he stopped,
listened, and looked at his watch.

It was Sandy Kilday, and he was waiting for the freight-train
with the fixed intention of committing suicide.

The complications arising from Jimmy Reed’s
indiscretion had resulted disastrously. When
Sandy found that Ruth had read his letter, his common
sense took flight. Instead of a supplicant, he
became an invader, and stormed the citadel with such
hot-headed passion and fervor that Ruth fled in affright
to the innermost chamber of her maidenhood, and there,
barred and barricaded, withstood the siege.

His one desire in life now was to quit it. He
felt as if he had read his death-warrant, and it was
useless ever again to open his eyes on this gray,
impossible world.

He did not know how far he had come. Everything
about him was strange and unfriendly: the woods
had turned to gaunt and gloomy skeletons that shivered
and moaned in the wind; the sunny fields of ragweed
were covered with a pall; and the river—­his
dancing, singing river—­was a black and
sullen stream that closed remorselessly over the dying
snowflakes. His woods, his fields, his river,—­they
knew him not; he stared at them blankly and they stared
back at him.

A rabbit, frightened at his approach, jumped out of
the bushes and went bounding down the track ahead
of him. The sight of the round little cottontail
leaping from tie to tie brought a momentary diversion;
but he did not want to be diverted.

With an effort he came back to his stern purpose.
He forced himself to face the facts and the future.
What did it matter if he was only twenty-one, with
his life before him? What satisfaction was it
to have won first honors at the university? There
was but one thing in the world that made life worth
living, and that was denied him. Perhaps after
he was gone she would love him.